Beyond the ever-drifting banks
Where stagnant waters, weed-locked, lie,
I flow into a quieter place
With my own tears my lullaby.
Here drinks the morning from the hills;
Here the first clouds in stillness blush.
Here waits the spear-straight, silvered grass,
Too pale and pristine to be lush.
And here I wait, newborn, alone;
Skin-less until my skin shall grow
To bear the agony of light,
And greet the waters’ ebb and flow.
And then (perhaps?) the dearer thing
My storm-drowned heart so longs to find:
A hand, a voice, a welcoming;
The human touch of my own kind.